Spuller's Tank

Colonel Heston picked up his binoculars and looked toward the cloud of dust in
the distance. God, I hate Russia, he said to himself. I guess I should be
lucky I'm not in Siberia, but these steppes aren't much better. Finally he
could make out the shape moving in the dust. A tank. A Russian tank.

What the fuck? One tank? What the hell was this? Some idiot with something
to prove?

He turned to Sergeant Cullen beside him. "Cullen, do you see that tank?"

Cullen took the glasses and looked. He said, "Must be Spuller, Colonel."

Spuller? "In a Russian tank?"

"Look, Colonel," Cullen said, handing the glasses back. "Look at the front of
the tank. What do you see?"

Heston squinted. Cullen's eyesight was a hell of a lot better than his, but
he could just barely make out some kind of crude drawing in paint. "It's a
horse--tied to a letter S."

"S-Puller. Spuller. Get it?"

"Christ, what a sense of humor that guy's got. So he must have got the
device, then."

"What device?"

"Never mind, Sergeant. Need-to-know. Hey! What the hell's he doing?" The
tank had swerved. It was heading toward the ravine, and the hastily-erected
plank bridge spanning it. "That bridge won't hold a tank! Jesus, he's trying
to kill himself!"

The rest of the troop had caught on that something was happening, and they
arranged themselves on the sides of the hill, so they had a good view of the
steppes below, and the progress of the tank.

They all watched as the tank sped up to the plank bridge, and onto it. They
all waited with morbid impatience for the bridge to collapse.

It didn't. The tank kept going, seeming not to notice the frailty of the
structure beneath it. Heston looked more closely at the base of the tank.
Jesus, the treads aren't even making contact with the fucking bridge. So the
thing really works. Not much chance of keeping it a secret now, though. He
put his binoculars down and went back down the hill, pushing soldiers out of
the way to be the first to greet Spuller when he emerged from the tank.